


Miscellany

by moonlighten



Series: Feel the Fear [107]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-27 22:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 6,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles and snippets of stories set in the Feel the Fear (and Rookery Downs) universe(s).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Scotland and England have a run in with the police.

**Could be any given weekend; anywhere in the UK**  
  
  
PC Morrison really hates working Saturday nights.  
  
"Do you expect me to believe this is a genuine passport?"  
  
The taller drunk-and-disorderly nods vigorously. "Course it is. See," he says, leaning over the policeman's shoulder to tap the photo, "looks just like me."  
  
It does, and if wasn't for the completely _ridiculous_ name and date of birth, PC Morrison wouldn't be to tell it was a forgery.   
  
"And I suppose that's England, then," he scoffs, nodding towards the skinny blond communing rather messily with a nearby wheelie bin.  
  
'Scotland' looks indignant. "Hey, I thought you said you didn’t recognise us!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An abandoned prologue to [An Unexpected Path](http://archiveofourown.org/works/630560).

**26th December, 2008; London, England  
**

  
  
"I think you've killed him."  
  
"Don't be daft." Scotland crouches down so his head is on a level with Northern Ireland's, which is pillowed on his crossed arms atop the kitchen table. "He's just having a wee snooze."  
  
Wales tentatively nudges Northern Ireland's shoulder. His brother does not respond for a moment, and when he eventually does, it's only to loose a low groan from his lax lips and screw his eyelids a little tighter closed.  
  
"See," Scotland says, grinning up at Wales triumphantly. "He's fine."  
  
"He is not fine," Wales says, firmly. "Jesus, _Yr Alban_ , he's only a lad. You know he can't match you pint for pint without doing himself an injury."  
  
Scotland's grin fades, and then contracts into a scowl. "He needs to learn how to handle his drink; it's an essential part of growing up. I did the same for you and England, didn't I?"  
  
Wales nods, because Scotland had, although he isn't entirely sure what the benefit of it had been, considering that not one of the three of them has what could be considered a healthy of relationship with alcohol nowadays. "That's as maybe, but _Lloegr_ 's still not going to be happy, you know."  
  
"When was the last time England was happy about anything?" Scotland snorts, straightening up briefly before sitting himself down heavily on one of the dining chairs. "He's a miserable git whatever happens, so what difference does it make?"  
  
Wales takes a seat opposite Scotland, and then reaches over to run his fingers briefly through Northern Ireland's dark, tangled hair. Northern Ireland snuffles a bit, and burrows his head deeper into the crook of his arms. "Good luck finding somewhere to stay at this time of night when he kicks you out of the house. And you know he will."  
  
"Not going to come to that, is it." Scotland stretches his arms up above his head, swinging his chair back to balance precariously on two legs as he props his feet against the edge of the table. "We'll sort something out before he comes back, and he'll be none the wiser.  
  
Short of grabbing hold of Northern Ireland's nose and force-feeding him coffee until he sobers up, Wales can't imagine what they could possibly do, and _that's_ more likely to just make him puke up all over England's house – again – than have any positive effect, anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During the War of the Fourth Coalition, Scotland and England discuss Canada. An abandoned prologue to a planned fic about Canada and Prussia.

  
**1806; London, England**  
  
  
Normally, Canada would diligently disregard any voices he heard emerging from England's study. That room, he had been reminded time and again, was England's sanctuary, and even though the conversations therein were sometimes conducted at such a volume that the only way to escape overhearing them was to quit the house entire, his expectation of privacy while inside was absolute.  
  
Such studied indifference was far simpler, Canada discovered, when the subject of the conversation was not himself; when the name which slipped through the partially-open door was not his own. Although he knew he should pretend ignorance and carry on towards the library as though undisturbed, he found his steps slowing, curiosity piqued, regardless.  
  
Through the crack in the door, Canada could see a sliver of England's face, not enough to accurately judge his expression, but the taut arc of his back and curl of his shoulders as he leant forward in his chair telegraphed a certain amount of anger.   
  
When he spoke, however, his tone was blandly disinterested. "What was that about Matthew?"  
  
"I said, why the hell have you dragged the poor lad halfway across the sodding world this time?" Scotland's voice was a deep bass growl which made Canada nervous no matter whether he was doling out punishments or simply passing comment on the weather, doubtless because the former had most often been his experience of it. "And in the middle of a fucking war, no less."  
  
"What business is that of yours?"   
  
There was a dull squeal, wood scraping against wood, and then Scotland moved to stand in front of the desk, blocking England from Canada's view completely. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back, fingers knotted, as though he didn't trust himself to leave them loose. "I know it tends to slip your mind more often than not, but this is supposed to be a _union_ , England. It's my business just as much as it is yours. Wales and Ireland's, too, and yet you never breathed a word about it to any of us until he turned up on the fucking doorstep. Do our bosses even know he's here?"  
  
"It wasn't," England began, but his voice frayed, and then unravelled into silence.  
  
Despite the quiet that had descended over the study, Canada almost missed what Scotland said next because the words were so softly spoken. "He didn't leave you after America's revolution, or France's, so I doubt you're going to lose him now."  
  
Canada found himself holding his breath as he awaited England's reply. England had never admitted such a fear to him, never even hinted at its existence; there had only been dire warnings of punishment to come if ever Canada thought he might try to follow his brother's or France's example.   
  
"If anything, I should be worried about you," England said eventually.   
  
"Me?" Scotland sounded puzzled. "What have I got to do with anything?"  
  
Canada released his breath in a thin sigh, shoulders slumping. He had been forgotten already; his loyalty a given, apparently, and not something which deserved further discussion. It should not have come as any surprise, and yet disappointment sank cold through his body, settling deep and heavy in the pit of his stomach.  
  
"It wasn't so long ago that you would do anything _he_ asked." England's tone was contemptuous. "You can't blame me for wondering –"  
  
"Yes I fucking can," Scotland snapped, and his hands parted and then clenched into fists, crushing the material of his dark blue coat as he pressed them hard against the small of his back. "How many wars have I fought alongside you now, against him at that, and you're still 'wondering'? It's ancient bloody history, England, nothing left but dust and ashes, and there's no coming back from it. I'm stuck with you, and you with me, whether we like it or not."  
  
"Which we don't," England said, amusement slowly threading through his voice as he spoke.  
  
Scotland chuckled, his rigid stance relaxing slightly. "Aye, obviously. I thought that went without saying."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wales' first meeting with Scotland's mate, James.

**7th April, 2006; Edinburgh, Scotland**  
  
  
Sometimes, Wales thinks that the Scotland who lives in Edinburgh can’t possibly be the same one with whom he had shared a home for the best part of three hundred years.  
  
That Scotland was an almost Byronic figure, spending most of his free time roaming through both Bedfordshire and London on long, solitary walks, and the rest, gloomily brooding in his room, alone save for a bottle of whisky.  
  
This one has so many mates Wales can barely keep track of them all.  
  
He smiles politely as he looks up at a face he’s sure must belong to one of them, given the friendly pat on the back he was greeted with, but no matter how desperately he rummages through his memory, he can’t put a name to it.  
  
Engaging in such a furious mental scavenger hunt must have left his expression somewhat blank and vacant looking, because the back-patter’s face reddens and he takes a stumbling step back out of Wales’ personal space as he mumbles, “You are Dylan, right?”  
  
Wales nods, feeling so ashamed for not being to use the poor bloke’s own name in return that he can’t bring himself to say anything at all, as its omission would doubtless be all the more glaring now.  
  
The man smiles broadly, looking relieved. “I’m James,” he says. “Aly sent me over to help you with the drinks.”  
  
Wales does remember a James, but, to his own relief, he realises it’s only second-hand knowledge, imparted during Scotland’s interminable stories about his weekly football games, which had recently begun to star an amazing goalie, poached from one of the other local pub’s teams when he moved onto the next street down from Scotland’s only a month or so before. His brother had, however, neglected to mention that said goalie was so tall that he’d need to bend almost double to offer out his hand, which would have certainly been helpful for identification purposes and spared them both a moment of embarrassment. (Wales has suspected for a long time, though, that Scotland – with a few notable exceptions – takes about as much notice of people’s physical attributes as others do the colour of their shoelaces.)  
  
“He’s a lazy bastard sometimes,” Wales commiserates as he shakes the proffered hand. It completely engulfs his own. “He was supposed to come and do that himself. I notice he didn’t even give you chance to take off your coat first.”  
  
“I don’t mind,” James says with a shrug. “I’ve been sat on my arse all day at work, it’ll do me good to stretch my legs a bit.”  
  
“Jesus, don’t let Alasdair hear you saying that or he’ll have you trekking up and down mountains for the rest of the night.”  
  
 “Don’t worry, I won’t.” James’ chuckle sounds rueful. “I’ve already learnt my lesson _there_.”  
  


* * *

  
  
Scotland’s eyes flick suspiciously between James and Wales when they return to his table; a movement so quick that even Wales would have missed it if he hadn’t already known to expect it.  
  
He presumes his brother is checking for signs of debauchery, as he seems convinced that Wales is barely able to contain himself from leaping on any human who has the misfortune to wander into his line of sight. Which does beg the question of why he would have deliberately chosen to send his new friend into what he clearly believes is a metaphorical lion’s den, but then perhaps it had been some bizarre kind of test.  
  
The brief but firm nod Scotland gives after he’s finished his inspection indicates he’s satisfied enough that James looks unmolested, however, and presumably Wales can be trusted to interact with him without constant fraternal supervision.     
  
Thus reassured, he turns his attention to more important matters, namely his pint, which he takes from James as he offers a disinterested-sounding, “You found him, then,” whilst inclining his head towards Wales.  
  
“No thanks to you, mate,” James says with a slight roll of his eyes. “He doesn’t look anything like you described him.”  
  
Wales imagines ‘dopey-looking’, ‘midget’ and ‘lard arse’ featuring prominently, and he glares at his brother, hoping that he might have the grace to look contrite, or even just a little embarrassed.  
  
But, of course, he doesn’t.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is little Wales' brothers fear more than the break down of his relationships.

**14th November, 1997; London, England**  
  
  
England's pulse is still racing; sweat soaking his palms and drying cold at the back of his neck. He folds his arms against the steering wheel and hunches forward over them, breathing deeply until his heart rate slows to something approaching normal, and he can ask, "Were we followed, North?"  
  
England can hear Northern Ireland shuffling about in the back seat, no doubt craning around so he can peer through the rear window. "I can't see anything," he says, but warily, as though he's unwilling to trust either his eyes or his own judgement. As such, the observation does little to loosen England's tightly-wound nerves.  
  
Nor does the sound of the passenger door being wrenched open, and his guts twist themselves into a painful knot until his brain adds together the whisky-sour smell, lack of sobbing, and casual disregard for the integrity of England's personal property, supplies the conclusion of _Scotland_ and the relaxation of relief sinks down through his body. In the past, the juxtaposition of 'Scotland' and 'relief' in his mind would have caused a dissonance so clashing as to unsettle England even further, and still would now, no doubt, in all situations bar this one.  
  
Scotland jostles England with his shoulders, elbows, and an occasional knee (which England suspects is deliberate; Scotland's not _that_ tall) as he clambers into the car and then tries to settle himself into a comfortable position on the Bentley's narrow seat. "You tossers better not have been thinking of pissing off without me," he says, with one last, sharp jab to England's ribs.  
  
"We weren't planning on going anywhere," England assures him. "I don't think Wales noticed us leaving, so we should be safe enough out here."  
  
"I wouldn't count on that," Scotland says gloomily. "Didn't you hear? He's pulled out the big guns. _Joy Division_ , England. Fucking _Joy Division_. We've entered uncharted territory here, and who knows what else he might do."  
  
England clears his throat nervously. "I don't think –"  
  
"Erm, England," Northern Ireland cuts in. "He's looking out through his bedroom window."  
  
England's, "Fucking hell," is echoed half a beat out of synch by Scotland.  
  
"Do you think…" England pauses, swallowing heavily. It hardly bears thinking about, but they need to know. "Do you think he's spotted us?"  
  
"I'm not sure. I can't really see his face properly, so… Oh."  
  
That 'Oh' sounds very ominous. "What is it, North? What's he doing now?"  
  
"He's shut his curtains again," Northern Ireland says, and the note of fear in his voice sets England's heart to hammering once more.  
  
"He could be on the move," Scotland says, clutching urgently at England's shoulder. "Fucking drive, England."  
  
England slams his foot down so hard on the accelerator that the Bentley’s engine screams in indignation as it lunges forward, sounding as eager to escape as England feels himself.  



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scotland does not have the best relationship with France's flatmate.

**28th September, 2010; Paris, France**  
  
  
Contrary to popular belief, France definitely has a type.  
  
And that type is fat and fluffy, with a face that looks like it’s had an unpleasant encounter with the business end of a shovel.  
  
Though their colours have varied, each one of France’s cats for the past century have shared these three basic characteristics, along with an overweening hatred of Scotland unrivalled by any other living being. Including England.  
  
The latest incumbent, Duchesse (to Scotland’s mind, an inappropriately dignified name for a creature that licks its own arse clean), is no exception; twelve pounds of pure, undiluted evil lurking beneath an innocuous pile of white fuzz and huge, deceptively innocent-looking, blue eyes.  
  
Behind Scotland’s head, Duchesse’s tail starts to twitch, its tip skimming across the back of his neck, which only serves to remind him how unprotected and vulnerable it is. He starts to try and edge further down the sofa, out of striking range, but the prickling sound of Duchesse’s claws sliding into the upholstery as she unsheathes them suggests she takes exception to the disturbance. He stops, holding himself as still as possible, and prays France will hurry the fuck up with whatever it is that’s kept him holed up in the kitchen for so bloody long.  
  
Even complete immobility does not appease Duchesse, who begins to growl; a deep, bass rumble which sounds far too loud to have built in such a tiny ribcage.  
  
Scotland tries very hard not to breathe.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scotland and England talk in the trenches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this before [Find Your Path](http://archiveofourown.org/works/628993), but as the two ended up covering a lot of the same ground, this was scrapped at the prologue stage.

**December, 1915; Western Front**  
  
  
Inspections and chores are done, their snipers are in position, and dusk and the second stand to are half the day away; all there is to do now is wait.  
  
Scotland can't sleep anymore and he has no sweetheart waiting for him back home – or anywhere else for that matter – so he's unable to while away the empty hours in the same way his men do. He can only smoke endless cigarettes, drink mug after mug of lukewarm tea that tastes faintly of mud and piss and smoke like everything does in the trenches, and have exactly the same fucking conversations with his brother as he had yesterday and will do tomorrow.  
  
"He’ll get himself in trouble over that lad one of these days," England says, as he has every day for the past fortnight whenever he first catches sight of Wales and Alasdair together.  
  
And, for the fourteenth time, Scotland tells him, "No, he won't. No-one gives a shit, England."  
  
Normally, Wales would be far more circumspect, but normal went by the wayside months back. Given who he is, _what_ he is, all their men seem content not to notice that Wales is standing far too close to his Gunner, that their shoulders, sides and even heads are touching as they both bend over a notebook at the other side of the trench.  
  
England can no more dispute that fact than he could two weeks ago, and he doesn’t even try. He does, however, seem to have given the matter enough thought since Scotland dismissed it yet again the previous day that he can add a completely new complaint.  
  
"He's far too young for him."  
  
It’s a valiant effort, Scotland supposes, but just as easy to discount as all of England’s others on the subject.  
  
"If _he_ is, then technically they _all_ have been. It’s a bit too late to start caring about it now."  
  
England sniffs loudly and disapprovingly, and then takes a swig from his tea. The rim of the tin mug rattles against his teeth.  
  
“Well, excuse me for worrying about our brother,” he says once he’s swallowed, sounding a little offended. “Perhaps you should, too. You know it’ll come to grief, soon enough. It always does. And we’ll be the ones left trying to piece him back together in the aftermath, no doubt.”  
  
No doubt they would, and the prospect of trying to console a broken hearted Wales is one that Scotland would find appalling to contemplate even were they in more amenable circumstances, but he still can’t find it in his heart to begrudge his brother his attempt to wring even a little bit of happiness out of the trenches, no matter how fleeting.  
  
He understands that desire all too well himself, after all.

And, besides: "You never know, he might get lucky. Maybe things might actually be different with this one. It's bound to happen sooner or later, right?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not actually Feel the Fear this time, but [Rookery Downs](http://archiveofourown.org/series/36107), and the opening to a fic that didn't end up matching the tone of the rest of the (at the moment unfinished) piece.

Down beyond the formal garden and the long-barren walled orchard – where centuries’ old horticultural regimentation grudgingly gives way to nature – there’s a copse of ancient oak trees, and a small stream which marks the edge of what remains of the Kirkland demesne.  
  
Beyond it lies acres upon countless acres of land which used to belong to the family, but have been sold off piecemeal over the years to local farmers to pay for a roof repair here and settle a gambling debt there and are now largely home to sheep which occasionally escape and stray into Mum’s vegetable garden or need to be rescued from the ha-ha.  
  
This untamed hinterland is Dylan’s favourite part of the whole estate. Save for the low chuckle of fast-flowing water skipping over stones and sporadic bird call, it’s always quiet, and it’s cool and shady in summer, starkly beautiful in winter, and now, in springtime, the stream’s banks are covered by a colourful blanket of wildflowers.  
  
“When all at once I saw a crowd, a host of golden daffodils,” Dylan recites under his breath as he stoops to pick one of the yellow flowers. “Beside the lake, beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze.”  
  
He offers the flower to Michael when he straightens up, but Michael just stares at it blankly, seemingly unimpressed.  
  
“It’s a daffodil. Can you say that, Michael? Daff-o-dil?” Dylan waves the flower around in front of his little brother so that its heavy head bobs and bounces, attempting to make it look more enticing.  
  
Michael folds his fingers in towards his palms and stays silent.  
  
“Jesus, Dyl.” Alasdair snorts, peering up the bank towards them from where he’s crouched beside the stream. “He can’t even say dog yet.” He holds up a smooth, brown stone he’s fished out from the bed of the stream. “How about rock, Mikey? That’s a bit easier.”  
  
Michael takes a deep breath, cheeks swelling with trapped air, but then simply blows it out through his nose and shakes his head.  
  
“Feldspathic Arenite?” Alasdair ventures, smirking slightly.  
  
When this second attempt garners him exactly the same response as the first, he shrugs, tucks the stone into the pocket of his jeans, and then returns his attention to the water.  
  
Dylan persists for a little while longer, pointing out the sheep poking its head through the barbed wire fence on the other side of the stream, the birds perching in the trees, and the clouds scudding through the sky, but Michael stays as tight-lipped as ever. Eventually, even Dylan’s near-indefatigable patience starts to run out, and when it becomes a struggle to maintain the gentle, coaxing tone he had been affecting, he clamps his mouth shut before he starts yelling at poor Michael to just say something, _anything_ so Mum can stop worrying about him at last.  
  
He slumps down on a fallen log, and pulls out the little notebook he always carries with him so he can lose himself in his own words for a while to distract himself from worrying about Michael’s lack of them.  
  
Michael grins happily, and then toddles off a little way to investigate whether leaf mulch is good to eat.  
  
(Judging by his disgusted gagging a moment later, the answer to that is a resounding no.)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rookery Downs again, and a excised opening to [Nice](http://archiveofourown.org/works/670756) which was meant to be a framing device throughout, but didn't seem to work beyond the start...

Alasdair first realised that his memory seemed to work differently to most people’s when he was five.  
  
Mum had taken him and Caitlin into Chester to buy them new shoes, ready for their first day of school, and they’d run into one of their stepfather’s work friends outside Marks & Spencer. Mum had chatted to him for a few minutes, about the weather and traffic and the start of the autumn term.  
  
She couldn’t remember his name by the time they got home but, she’d told Peter when relaying the story, the man had red hair, wasn’t very tall and was perhaps a little overweight. No, Caitlin had insisted, he had blond hair and was much, much bigger than Mummy.  
  
But Alasdair knew that the man had hair the same colour as Dylan’s, parted down the middle and covered with something oily-looking which made it clump in sharp spikes around his ears. He knew his name was Steven, that he thought the day was a little too chilly September, and didn’t winter seem to come earlier and earlier each year?  
  
He was nearly the same height as Mum, and his stomach strained at the fabric of his jacket, pulling it tight against the buttons so that little ovals of his blue jumper beneath could be seen between each one. He smelled like cigarettes, just like Granddad always did, the thick, blunt fingers of his right hand were stained yellow from them, just like his crooked teeth.  
  
Even more than twenty years later, Alasdair can close his eyes and picture him just as clearly as he did then; hear his thick Lancashire accent, and the way his breath rasped between each word as if he was struggling to catch it properly.  
  
His memory has been a blessing at times. It certainly always served him well come exam time, which might as well have all been open book,  
  
There are many more things he’s wished he could forget, however.  
  
Like the exact wording of his acceptance letter to Oxford, and how it felt, for a brief, shining moment, to think his life was actually going to be the one he’d choose.  
  
Or every last platitude, clammy handshake, and fucking pitying look he’d received at his grandfather’s funeral, and then his mother’s.  
  
Or falling in love.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An abandoned fic about Wales and his Gunner in WWI.

**12th November, 1915; Western Front**  
  
  
Wales hates the noise the tip of his knife makes as he digs it into the side of his canteen; high-pitched and grating, it sets his teeth on edge. He's not entirely happy with the pattern he's inscribing, either. It's clumsy, inelegant, and nothing like the intricate picture he'd constructed in his head before he started on the task.  
  
Still, he perseveres, because the slow creation of contours and curlicues, of sweeping arcs and tight angles, fills his mind to the very edges whilst he works, leaving room for nothing else, and his hands do not tremble when he has to focus on forming a clean line.  
  
The only other times they are steady anymore are when he's holding a gun.  
  
"I need to speak to Capitaine Bonnefoy; is he down there?"  
  
The sound of the voice, intruding unexpectedly through the tight barricade of Wales' concentration, startles him, and his knife slips, nicking the pad of his thumb. A small bead of blood wells in the shallow cut, and Wales wipes it against the rough material of his trousers before replying.  
  
"Yes, but he's busy." Wales doesn't turn his head, not wanting to encourage a conversation. He relishes the relative calm found at daybreak, and the only solitude he's likely to find all day. "I'll tell him you were looking for him."  
  
The speaker, however, appears undeterred by Wales' terseness, and jogs down the dugout steps to join Wales on the penultimate one. Wales watches his unwelcome companion out of the corner of his eye as he settles himself, and the profile presented to him is a familiar one: Gunner McMillan – Alasdair – the focus of France's attention and increasingly forthright flirtation from the moment he stepped foot in their trench.  
  
"I don't mind waiting," Alasdair says, stretching out his long legs and crossing them at the ankles; making himself comfortable.  
  
Wales could order him to leave, but there's really nowhere to order him _to_ , other than to go and join in with the pointless morning ritual of mutual sabre rattling.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A 2010 'bank holiday bonding weekend' fic I started before realising that I'd already written Wales spending the August bank holiday making Scotland uncomfortable by displaying emotion, so subsequently had to drop.

**28th August, 2010; London, England**  
  
  
The Bentley's boot is small enough to be verging on the useless even under normal circumstances, but seeing as though England appears to have packed equipment more in keeping with a six month sabbatical rather than three days in Wales, Scotland doubts there's room for a single extra sheet of paper inside, never mind his rucksack.  
  
"Do you really need your guitar?" he asks, tugging at the case. The bag balanced on top of it wobbles, and England makes a low sound of alarm as he shoots a hand out to steady it.  
  
"Yes," England insists firmly. He does not elaborate further on the supposed essential part the guitar will play in their holiday, but scowls at Scotland as though he is the one who's being difficult and unreasonable. "It's taken me most of the morning to work out how to squeeze everything in, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't start trying to move things about willy nilly."  
  
"And I would've appreciated it if you'd left me some room to put my stuff, too." Scotland slaps England's hand away and tips the bag onto the floor instead, causing England to complain indignantly about it containing his art supplies which can't possibly be left behind. "Jesus, when's the last time you did any painting, England? I think you can cope better without them than I could without fucking clean underwear. Bloody hell, if you really _do_ need all this crap, why the fuck don't you just take the Range Rover instead?"  
  
England mutters something under his breath about miles to the gallon and petrol prices which Scotland knows is a load of old shite, because the real reason is, as it always is, that England just wants an excuse to take the Bentley out and show it off. To be seen in it, and feel smug and indulgent every time someone looks at it admiringly, or even better, enviously. He would never own up to it, however, because England hates to admit that sometimes he does things simply for the sheer pleasure of doing them and not for some greater, _nobler_ purpose.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An chunk excised from [Love is a Verb](http://archiveofourown.org/works/629496) about Wales' exes.

"So, I saw Cerys the other day," Wales says. "She's still with Rhys. Apparently, they're planning on buying a cottage near _Pont-y-pŵl_."  
  
"Aye?" Scotland had thought he'd heard enough about Wales' last crappy relationship earlier in the year to last him a lifetime, but he supposes that it's somewhat preferable change from talking about his own. "Well, I still think you're best off out of it. She's a nutter."  
  
"She is not," Wales splutters. "She –"  
  
"Come on, Wales," Scotland says, rolling his eyes. "I can't remember the last person you dated who wasn't completely weird. God, what was the name of that bloke name you were seeing back in the fifties? You know, that artist who only ever painted pictures of his cock."  
  
"Llewellyn," Wales says, quietly, taking one last drag of his cigarette and then grinding the butt beneath his heel.  
  
"Yeah, that was it. He was always going on and on about wanting to immortalise you in stone, and the way he said it, me and England were convinced he was going to try and set you in concrete and then pop you in the corner of his living room as an interesting talking point or something. And then there was that lass in the Eighties who would go and roll around naked in our back garden at the crack of dawn, giving England the vapours –"  
  
"She was trying to commune with the fae." Wales' tone is sharp, snappish. "Apparently she and _Lloegr_ had a very enlightening conversation one night when he was rat-arsed, and I didn't have the heart to tell her that it wouldn't work. They were interesting people, _Yr Alban_ , they had new ideas, and I liked that. Shit, I like that about humans, full stop."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The opening of an abandoned fic about Wales moving into his new house in Cardiff.

**18th September, 1999; Cardiff, Wales**  
  
  
Wales had been well aware that he'd need to go furniture shopping at the earliest possible opportunity, but had completely forgotten about so many of the other little things he needed to set up a house.  
  
He had a kettle and mugs, but no spoons, which had resulted in him trying to fish the bag out of the very first cup of tea he made in his new home with the handle of a knife, and then when that failed, his fingers. As he stood at the sink afterwards, holding his scalded hand under the cold tap, he realised that he had also neglected to buy tea towels, sponges, or, in fact, any cleaning supplies at all beyond washing up liquid.  
  
Unlike Scotland and Northern Ireland, he'd never shirked responsibility for his share of the household chores at England's, but he'd never given them much thought, either. England was the one who drew up rotas (which were largely ignored), shouted at Scotland for not pulling his weight (also ignored), and did all the supermarket shopping. Everything Wales had needed was always to hand in the well-stocked kitchen and bathroom cupboards, and he'd never had to worry himself about replacing any of it.  
  
Clearly, a quick trip to the Asda down the road was a priority before he could even think about unpacking.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A snippet excised from an as yet unfinished fic about Canada and Prussia, which is superfluous to the story, but was not deleted as it represents several hours of research about 18th century letter writing and ocean crossings...

**1784; British North America**  
  
  
Canada knew without asking what England's answer would be if he went to him for permission to visit to America, so he took the coward's route and sought Wales' instead.  
  
Wales' reply to his letter was remarkably swift, and ran to three densely-packed pages, all of which were crossed. It took Canada several hours to decipher, but it appeared to be a treatise on the importance of brotherhood. From the desperate tone it took on towards the end, it appeared that the subject was one which had been preoccupying Wales, and perhaps something he was trying to convince himself of rather than Canada. His actual approval for Canada's proposed trip was given almost as an afterthought in a single sprawled line before his closing and signature.  
  
There was a fourth page, a single thick sheet of creamy parchment whose presence negated the frugality of crossing the previous three. It appeared to be a poem expounding the theme of brotherly love espoused in the rest of the letter, written in beautiful, flowing script. Canada smoothed it out, then guiltily set it to one side, promising himself that he'd take some time in the future to appreciate it properly, even though he knew deep down that it would meet the same fate as all the other poems Wales had written for him over the years: carefully preserved, but unread all the same.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I finally got around to sorting through some files that I rescued from an old and defunct laptop, and discovered a few things I can't even recall having written.
> 
> Apparently, I started a sequel to [Endurance](http://archiveofourown.org/works/672356)...

* * *

 

**Circa 510**  
  


Alt Clut's steps slow as they near Rome's wall, and he catches hold of Gwynedd's elbow. "You know what, Gwyn?" he says. "Nothing's changed all _that_ much since the last time we were here. To be honest, I don't why I bothered dragging you all this way."  
  
Gwynedd allows his brother to pull him to a halt, but only reluctantly. Alt Clut has been talking about making this journey again with great enthusiasm for months, and the sudden change of heart seems more than a little suspicious. "But I thought you wanted to show me something?"    
  
"Naw, it was nothing. Stuff and nonsense, really." Alt Clut's fingers tighten their hold. "Come on, there's a great fishing spot I know not far away. Or we could go swimming…"  
  
"What's the matter, Alt?" Gwynedd asks. "What's going on?"  
  
Alt Clut laughs softly, little more than a flutter of breath, and his eyes dart towards the north and east. Towards a point beyond the crumbling wall. "Can't you feel it?"  
  
"Feel what?"  
  
"Pictland's close by," Alt Clut hisses, low and urgent. "We should leave before he gets any closer."  
  
If Gwynedd extends his senses far enough – beyond the tiny ripples stirred by the movements of animals, beyond the jagged fissures the fae rend in the air as they fly overhead, and the familiar maelstrom of Alt Clut's presence – he can feel, very faintly, the great weight of one of their own kind, pressing down upon the earth. To Alt Clut, as attuned as he is to his own lands' song, it probably seems as strident as a horn blast, but to Gwynedd, it is merely a note played slightly off key, imperceptible until he knew what to listen for.  
  
"I want to meet him," Gwynedd says, twisting his arm free of his brother's increasingly painful grip.  
  
Alt Clut's eyes widen so far that the whites are visible above his irises. "Why?"  
  
"Why would I not? He's one of our own kind, which makes him our kin, in a way, even if we cannot claim him as our brother."  
  
"The sort of kin that we should be glad is not eager to claim us," Alt Clut grumbles, but though he sighs, and gives a sorrowful shake of his head, he ultimately capitulates, nevertheless. "Come, let's go and try to attract his attention, then, if it will please you."  
  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
  
Given the way Alt Clut described him, Gwynedd had been expecting Pictland to be a giant.  
  
He _is_ heavily set – broad shouldered and barrel-chested, and his legs, judging by what little of them is visible below the hem of his long tunic, are thick and sturdy – but not even a head taller than Alt Clut himself.  
  
He greets them both by name, and the childish timbre of his voice is a surprise, considering the size of his frame and the seeming maturity of his features. He still looks far from a man full grown, but his face lacks the full roundness of youth that softens Gwynedd's own; his jaw heavy and his cheekbones pronounced. As he grows near, Gwynedd notices that his eyes are not green like the rest of his siblings', but a shade darker than his braided hair, which is the same colour as a fox's winter pelt.  
  



	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... And wrote a little more of [Mindful](https://archiveofourown.org/works/672295).

They had, it appeared, arrived too late to be of any use.  
  
The irregulars who had made up the bulk of the French force had decided they preferred wine to fighting, and now lay scattered across Pembrokeshire in sodden, unhappy heaps that only needed to be scooped up before they sobered up. The few hundred soldiers that remained had retreated to Garnwnda and Carngelli, and were well protected by the rocky terrain, but, it appeared, their spirit had still been broken nevertheless by the loss of both troops and their naval support, which had departed that morning. The appearance of Wales and his brothers at the Royal Oak pub – Lord Cawdor's temporary headquarters – had been preceded only an hour before by two French officers, negotiating surrender.  
  
"They have until ten tomorrow. I have informed Colonel Tate he should meet us on Goodwick Sands," Lord Cawdor said, finishing his debrief.  
  
"The American?" England's top lip curled slightly. "And you said some of their officers were Irish?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Did you perhaps see a woman with them?" England leant farther across the pitted oak table, his hands clasped together and eyes sharply focused. "Tall; pale; wavy, reddish hair?"  
  
Lord Cawdor shook his head. "No, sir."  
  
"Or how about a French bloke about my height, with long, scraggly blond hair, and –"  
  
Scotland interrupted England with a short huff of laughter. "Come on, England. Neither of them is likely to be here."  
  
"You don't think they'd leap at the chance to –" England hastily swallowed his next word, which Wales thought was more than likely 'invade'. His gaze flitted around the taproom for a moment, presumably looking for inspiration, before he continued with, "Cause trouble for me."  
  
"A piddling wee skirmish like this? It wouldn't be worth either of their times to get involved."  
  
"I can't imagine there's an annoyance petty enough that they wouldn't prefer to inflict it upon me personally if they could," said England, who had clearly already constructed his own narrative of recent events; one he had no intention of revising to allow for trifling little matters such as truth or reality.


End file.
